


Talk To Me (Like Victorians Do)

by CBlue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: As I was editing I realized there was a praise kink in here whoops, F/M, First Kiss/First Time, Flower Language, I have such a praise kink I subconsciously write it, I haven't seen any of those yet and I have a need, It's true love bitch, Love Confessions, M/M, The Dowling Estate Where Everything Is Good And Nothing Hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: Though, if Ashtoreth were being entirely accurate, it was Francis who drowned her. Her anchor in a sea, she felt herself sink, fall, fall,fall, into the warm gaze of Brother Francis. It had always terrified her. Terrified her in a way that made her warn Warlock of dangerous four-letter words.





	Talk To Me (Like Victorians Do)

**Author's Note:**

> There are footnotes to this work. I apologize if for some reason the formatting on them is odd. I'm still trying them out. In any case, I hope you enjoy this work and thank you for reading!
> 
> The title for this work is a play off of the Eurythmics' "Here Comes The Rain Again", specifically the part of the chorus that goes "talk to me like lovers do."
> 
> I've tagged as M/F due to Nanny Ashtoreth's she pronouns and her relationship with Brother Francis.

There was a scent to the air. There was always a scent in the Dowling gardens, but this was different. Nanny Ashtoreth smiled peculiarly, venomous teeth gleaning against the soft petals that shivered beneath her gaze. She hissed threats under her breath as she made to smell their scent.

“Oh, Miss Ashtoreth!” The familiar voice of Brother Francis called out to her. She turned, grin softening even as she would deny it. “Breaking from the Young Warlock, are you?”

Ashtoreth chuckled, straightening from where she bent down to reach the petals. “The child is visiting a friend of his. Hardly right to bring his nanny along.”

Brother Francis laughed through those oddly shaped teeth of his. “No, I suppose not.” He stepped closer, calculated steps that left enough proper space between them. “Though, if it were to be any nanny, at least you’re the fun one.”

“Oh?” Ashtoreth’s voice took on an odd tone. It was as strangled as the roses were by the weeds that Brother Francis refused to pluck. “Certain parties might get the idea you like my ways if you continue on like that.”

A pink flush, softer than a tulip, kissed along Francis’ cheeks. Ashtoreth had long since dreamt of trailing her fingers over the high rise of his cheekbones. Yes, her dreams. Such an odd thing and yet she would lose herself to them. In the dreams she had, even daydreams as they were, those gentle eyes smiled upon her like a drowning man to a spot of land.

Though, if Ashtoreth were being entirely accurate, it was Francis who drowned her. Her anchor in a sea, she felt herself sink, fall, fall, _fall_, into the warm gaze of Brother Francis. It had always terrified her. Terrified her in a way that made her warn Warlock of dangerous four-letter words.

“Well,” Francis gave a small smile. “I suppose it’s a good thing then that it’s just us.” He whispered. And then he did something he had not done in all the years, years, _years, _that Ashtoreth had known him.

_He took a step closer._

Ashtoreth felt her throat close around dangerous words. Dangerous words she had warned Warlock about. “Just us.” She repeated, echoing a thousand other sentiments.

Francis’ cheeks darkened. That crooked smile of his was hidden behind pursed lips as he shyly looked to the blooms beside them. “I know you talk to them.” He confessed the truth they had both known. “It’s… well, gentleness can only get you so far, I suppose.” A twinkle lit up in his eyes as he turned to face her again and it was almost unbearable. “Thank you. It’s kind of you.”

Dangerous four-letter word, that. Kind. Kindness could hurt and wound just as much as any other foul deed. Ashtoreth could not tear her gaze away from Francis. Even as her eyes were hidden beneath her glasses. “Don’t mention it.” She nearly hissed, softly beneath her breath.

“Ashtoreth,” Francis began, “I… well, I mean…” He stumbled again. Constantly stumbling to put the words forth from those plush lips and crooked teeth. He turned, taking in the appearance of the blossoms. Plump fingers reached, plucking an Armani Tulip and presenting it to Ashtoreth. [[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]

Although she would never admit it, a deep flush painted her cheeks like her body’s own personal make-up. She gently took the flower, fingers trembling even before they touched the stem. “Brother Francis, you might want to make sure you’re knowing of what words people associate with blooms before you gift them.” She said carefully, eyes never leaving the dark red blooms, trimmed with light yellow.

“I speak many languages, Nanny Ashtoreth.” His words were a breath. “I know what these variegated tulips mean, and what people associate with them.”

A low and long-burning heat rose in Ashtoreth’s chest. Her rib cage clutched at her innards in a tightening grip. “Francis,” she whispered almost too reverently.

His smile was still present even as his eyes crumpled in their visage. “I… I don’t expect anything from you, my dear. It’s just… well, you know.” He spoke with his hands, making fidgeting gestures.

What could have been spoken in kindness, in the thoughts of a friend, were suddenly charged with an all crushing weight. It anchored Ashtoreth further into this sea. “Do I know?”

“Our… retirement coming up so soon.” Francis spoke carefully. “I… we both know we can’t do this forever.” His words were slow, plucked from his repertoire as if he were a poet.

“Couldn’t we?” Ashtoreth did not mean for the plead. This was her longest-lasting daydream and she quite liked it. She enjoyed laughing with Francis and tucking Warlock into bed with lullabies about shadows and darkness. She knew the age was coming but did it have to be so soon? She felt so old, and it weighed against her shoulders and her perfect stance.

Bittersweetness laced Francis’ smile. “You and I both know that answer.” His crooked teeth chewed his lip before he brushed past her, touching her in the barest regard. He moved to another bush with another bloom. “I… I don’t know what is going to happen after we retire.” He started carefully, fingers tickling at another familiar bloom.

Ashtoreth’s breath caught with the plucking of this one too. White petals had never looked so striking, so damning all in one movement. [[2](%E2%80%9C#note2%E2%80%9D)]This white violet was held out in a trembling hand with and equal trembling breath. “_Angel_,” the forbidden word rolled off her tongue. “If you’re trying to say something without your words-”

“I… I know that’s always been your thing, my dear.” He interrupted her gently. “But I… well, I just am finding it to be a bit easier following your steps.”

Ashtoreth was stunned. Numb fingers grasped at the violet’s stem. It didn’t dare wilt for fear of what she would do to it. She turned back to Francis. Ever so patient and ever so beautiful. Even with those crooked teeth. Especially with those crooked teeth if it meant this daydream could last. Ashtoreth had never been a woman of words. She saved words for Francis’ poets. She turned, moving to yet another bush and another bloom.

“There is an old Victorian way of doing this.” She spoke absently, eyes never wavering from behind her glasses as her vision roamed over the carnations. Each carnation shivered at her sight.

“I’m sorry?” Her foolish gardener was close to her now. He stood right beside her. “My dear, I know it’s not-”

Like a serpent striking, Ashtoreth’s fingers quickly snapped a red carnation from the bush. It didn’t dare prick through her gloves. She held it aloft, examining each petal carefully. “Do you remember it? That secret language and why it was crafted?”

Recognition sparked behind Francis’ eyes. “Oh…” He exhaled sharply. “So… I take it that…?”

“It is a singular, solid carnation, is it not?” [[3](%E2%80%9C#note3%E2%80%9D)] Ashtoreth snipped, holding out the bloom for Francis. “Now hurry up. I doubt Mrs. Dowling will be pleased we’re mutilating her bushes.”

A chuckle like a bell ringing raised from Francis' chest. “Oh, good heavens, no.” His smile was a visage, a mirage given to men without water in the desert. “I do believe that tea would match perfectly with the biscuits I’ve just gotten.”

“I’m sure it would.” Red painted lips smirked, but her smile’s motivation was clear. It was too soft around the edges. Ashtoreth held her chin aloft, eyeing the blossoms in her hand from beneath her tinted glasses. “When did you learn their language? I thought you preferred _reading_.”

Smiling like the smug bastard that he was, Francis hummed. He held his arm out for Ashtoreth to take, which she did with all the grace her fluster could muster. “There are books on the subject, my dear.” He quipped as they made their way through the Dowling garden.

It wasn’t the plushest garden Ashtoreth had slithered through. She most certainly had seen finer blooms, but Francis did have a touch that made the simplistic garden seem so much more vibrant. Leaves greened and shook in equal measure as they passed. Ashtoreth, despite her opinion on the garden, still felt in a trance. Unspoken things remained unspoken still, and she worried about her pacing. She paused, pulling Francis to a stop.

“You have to understand something, angel.” She spoke in that odd way that made Warlock pause and listen to her words. Her eyes burned intensely even behind the tinted glass.

Francis did pause, raising an eyebrow as he waited for her to speak. When her words did not come, Francis squeezed her hand that rested in the crook of his elbow.

Ashtoreth turned, and as if by some miracle, there bloomed a primrose on the ground. Primroses liked their soft soil and sitting below eye level. She stooped, plucking the Juliana quickly from its place. It was a hybrid primrose, but it would do. [[4](%E2%80%9C#note4%E2%80%9D)] Ashtoreth offered the white-purple petaled bloom to Francis.

“You have to understand…” She spoke gently. Even without the removal of her glasses, she knew how vulnerable she was. She had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but it seemed a permanent fixture there in the presence of Francis.

“Oh,” Francis exhaled again, tightening his hand over Ashtoreth’s own. “Oh, my dear.” His smile bloomed prettily, soft lips stretching over his teeth. She had heard the other house help whisper about his smile, but she loved it. She loved seeing every piece of him shine.

He drew her closer, continuing their walk to his small cabin. “I think I’ve run out of garden to speak with.” Sweat of all things beat upon his brow as his eyes darted back and forth. “Come in for a drink. Allow me to speak with you.”

Francis opened the door, bowing and beckoning Ashtoreth in first. She crossed the threshold, straightening out her skirt. As she turned, she spotted Francis placing his hat on a rack, closing the door behind him. His stature slouched for a moment. Perhaps he needed this moment of silence after a walk with such loud silence.

He turned and this time his smile was all too familiar despite how small it was. Eyes twinkled, bluer than a spring sky as he took a step closer to her. “_My dear_,” he spoke softly. His soft lips fighting not to stretch across perfectly straight teeth.

“_Angel_,” Ashtoreth rasped. Her breath was caught and the words were sharp as they crawled out of her being. “You’re-”

“I know.” He whispered, taking her gloved hand and raising it to his lips. “I just wanted to say it with the face you’ve known for six millennia.” He smiled, mirth brightening his eyes. “If it’s all the same to you.”

Ashteroth took a steadying breath that she did not need. “All the same.” She quipped as if it were something normal and not totally unexpected. As if years, years, _years_ of yearning were not being culminated by a few flowers.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered to his heart. He desperately craved all of his disguises off. He would always be Ashteroth as Ashteroth was him, but now his very spark cried out to be bared before his angel.

Throat clenched, Crowley watched helplessly as Aziraphale slowly, but surely, removed the glove covering a pale-skinned hand. Aziraphale kissed each knuckle tenderly, slow, slow, slow, _agonizing,_ before he locked his gaze with Crowley. “I know I’ve been slow, been _afraid_.” He confessed, tightening his grasp on Crowley’s hand. “But I’m done with fear, my love.”

That dangerous four-letter word that Crowley had warned Warlock about reared its head like an angry bull in the China shop of his heart. He swallowed the broken pieces, tears stinging at his eyes. “_Aziraphale_.” Crowley gasped, clutching at the lapels of his coat and pulling him forward. “I’d wait six more millennia for you.” He confessed. He felt dirty. Dirty in the gaze of this pure being. This being of pure light, love, encompassed him in this rapture of a dangerous, four-lettered word.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale cooed, taking Crowley’s palm and kissing it. The tenderness, the kindness with which Aziraphale held his bared heart was too much. But Crowley dared not move. He dared not break this daydream, this trance, and speed it along. He was perfectly alright with the pace that Aziraphale was setting.

The other glove went, and soon it was his glasses being pushed away from his eyes. “I did mean it, you know,” Aziraphale whispered, kissing both of his eyelids. “They’re lovely.”

“Stop.” Crowley hissed, clenching his eyes shut. “Aziraphale,” he whispered.

“I know,” Aziraphale spoke, and perhaps he did. “I know, Crowley, but _please._ Let me?”

And that was the secret, wasn’t it? Crowley could never deny Aziraphale anything. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Aziraphale cradled his face in between two soft palms. Crowley turned, kissing each one softly before holding Aziraphale’s gaze in full.

“I wish you could see it,” Aziraphale whispered, resting his forehead against Crowley’s chest. “If… if my love is even half as warm as what I feel from you in this moment…”

Crowley encircled Aziraphale’s waist, gripping him with serpentine-like strength and keeping him there. “I bask in it,” Crowley confessed. This drew Aziraphale’s questioning gaze. “I can see it. Not… not like you can, but…” he swallowed. He could see it. He wondered how long it had been there, hidden beneath the surface. How long would he have gone at Aziraphale’s pace and never known? None of it mattered at the moment. None of it would matter for several moments.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips. While Crowley’s dangerous four-letter word embodied more than anything humans could ever come up with, he found himself quivering at the closeness. Aziraphale captured his lips in a kiss. Kisses throughout time have damned and blessed in kind. They have sealed contracts, been made greeting, expressed gratitude and love.

The four-letter word roared in his chest until he could no longer breathe. He pulled away from Aziraphale. “I love you.” He whispered, damning them both in one breath. The point of no return had been passed some time ago, but now there was no hope for it. Every piece of Crowley had been laid before Aziraphale’s judgment, and he found himself giving something akin to a prayer hoping to be worthy.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale whispered in the moment between capturing his lips again. Hands moved, exploring familiar and unfamiliar parts all the same. Crowley felt his body shift, change skins like the snake he was, but between Aziraphale’s own corporation pushing him further into this small sanctuary and that dangerous, damning word blinding his other senses, Crowley didn’t know exactly when he had stopped being Ashteroth and was again Crowley.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley whispered again. There were no other words, no other prayers to be had. This was their side. Their side in a war they wanted no part of. Their side in a war they would avert and an ending they would prevent.

Soft hands found Crowley’s slim waist. A warm heat that Crowley could coil himself in for eternity if Aziraphale only asked baked him as they drew closer. If Crowley once thought that She made his heart for loving Aziraphale, he knew now that this form, his spark of life, was fitted just right for Aziraphale. He felt whole in a way that humans could only try to grasp with their conceptions of soulmates, and this was only from proximity. From Aziraphale’s mouth against his own.

A whisper, a plea, pulling Crowley under and drowning him as Aziraphale guided him further into the gardener’s cottage. It was cozy in all the ways that the bookshop was. Cared for tomes were strewn about and the smell of cocoa was on the tip of Crowley’s forked tongue.

Crowley let out a gasp into Aziraphale’s mouth when he collided with the small kitchen counter. Aziraphale was quick, tender hands hiking up Crowley’s skirt with more attention than he had the capacity for at the moment. Crowley’s opened mouth beckoned Aziraphale’s tongue. He had tried something with his own tongue and whatever it accomplished, it elicited a moan from those pinking lips.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped his name, tilting his head back and allowing Aziraphale’s greedy mouth to suckle along the skin of his neck. His slender fingers curled through Aziraphale’s soft locks, slithering like snakes through the grass.

“Oh, Crowley.” The ghost of Aziraphale’s kisses stung across Crowley’s corporation, causing goosebumps as he moved to the marking just beside his ear. “You’re ever so _lovely_.”

Crowley’s words choked him, a blocky thing escaped him in its place. A broken sob like the first rain caressed his cheeks despite his willing them not to. “Stop,” Crowley whispered, but they both knew the truth. He was a demon after all, and demons lied. He did in fact not want Aziraphale to ever stop.

And he would not stop. He would whisper promises of never stopping if Crowley allowed him. Crowley would crumble, fall, _drown_, into him. He would trace every curve of Aziraphale’s form with his tongue. Pronged appendaged following the natural lines of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley would hum hymnals, _odes_, to his body.

“Crowley,” were there any other words Aziraphale knew? Or did he purposefully drown Crowley with this? Purposefully sink heavy paws into his frail form and tear him asunder only to build him back stitch by stitch with his light? Aziraphale’s hands tightened, yanking away the undergarments that clung to Crowley. His skirt was hiked further, pooling around him as Aziraphale’s warrior strength hoisted him onto the counter as if he were a desert to be licked and eaten.

Eyes growing dark, Crowley tightened his hands on Aziraphale, dragging those blessed lips into his own. He would happily have stayed like that until his angel pulled back, grinning again like the smug bastard he was, and kissed him elsewhere. Elsewhere had never been a concern. An Effort had never been a concern, not unless the thought of Aziraphale fueled Crowley’s stumbling movements. Now it seemed the very echo of that same endearment that Crowley had accidentally invented egged Aziraphale on, lips moving over the exposed skin of Crowley’s thigh. He would sing his angel's name forever, even without the promise of this moving, moving, _touch_.

There was less care given to his skirt, but he didn’t mind. Not when Aziraphale’s buttoned nose had tucked so closely to this accursed heat. Not when Aziraphale kissed the inside of his thigh before pulling down his pants. Crowley gasped, feeling suddenly cold and too hot all at once. He gripped the counter, nails digging into the top, with one hand as the other knotted along Aziraphale’s scalp like a familiar nest.

“_Oh_,” Crowley gasped when he caught that unneeded breath. What was needed in this moment other than Aziraphale, truly? What else would he ever need beside this angel caressing every dark piece of him?

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley could feel those lips stretch around him. Perhaps She would strike him again, but this was what Paradise felt like. Paradise was the Edge of the Wall, the Oysters in Rome, the Wine in a Bookshop, and Aziraphale knelt in front of him, hollowing his cheeks and taking his fill. Heaven and Hell could have their sides, but this side, their side, was all that Crowley needed to fight against Satan himself if he had to.

Crowley always considered himself a demon of greed. He felt greed, liked it. Liked seeing it in the mortals he played with. But this was true greed. His true Fall as he came apart beneath the ministrations of an angel. Not just any angel. Never any angel but his own.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley spilled his words, his essence, into his lover. Oh, Hell, this had to be that, didn’t it? Please let it never be anything but love, love,_ love_. Weak for it, Crowley was. Pulling Aziraphale toward him, licking his own salt off of Aziraphale’s tongue. Perhaps there was no greed or lust here. Nothing but intimacy. Nothing but heated promise to continue this vague saunter downwards into the abyss as Crowley drowned, drowned, _drowned_.

Aziraphale smiled, trailing circles around Crowley’s thighs with the soft pads of his thumbs even as they both shook against one another. “How was that, my dear boy?”

Crowley grasped him, pulling him closer and coiling his long legs around Aziraphale’s thick waist. “Oh, angel.” He smirked, but they both knew Crowley spoke with his eyes. Golden eyes, shining, shimmering, _adoring_, spoke so many of the unspoken things that only flowers could speak.

He would repay Aziraphale. And Aziraphale would repay him for that. And together they would repay each other quite often.

As Crowley and Aziraphale sang the praises of the others’ name, as their souls and corporeal bodies became one, spider flowers bloomed outside the window sill. [[5](%E2%80%9C#note5%E2%80%9D)] A silent promise, another oath unspoken, An Arrangement of a different kind, made between sheets and thighs, was pledged between these two lovers. It would be some time before a nightingale would sing in Berkeley Square, but for now, Crowley would have this trance. This echo of a true Heaven, this dream of a returned, dangerous, _dangerous_, love.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Variegated Tulips mean “you have lovely eyes.”  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]  
2 White Violets mean “let’s take a chance on happiness.”  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]  
3 As Ashteroth mentions, in the Victorian era, admirer’s used carnations to speak to one another. A single, solid color that was not yellow meant yes. And as with roses, red means affection.  
[ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]  
4 Primrose means “I can’t live without you.”  
[ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]  
5 Spider Flowers mean “elope with me.”  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]


End file.
